


Final Call For Last Mistakes

by geckoholic



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Law Enforcement, Exes, F/M, Fingerfucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-04-05 12:54:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4180587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where they're working for the FBI and not for SHIELD, but Clint still can't follow orders properly and Bobbi's taste in husbands is still questionable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Final Call For Last Mistakes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [andibeth82](https://archiveofourown.org/users/andibeth82/gifts).



> This is most assuredly not how law enforcement of any kind works, but... /handwave/ Also, Clint can totally tango, don't even look at me like that. In this world he can, and he's damn good at it too. For reasons. Heeh. 
> 
> Beta-read by enigma731. Thank you! ♥ All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Title is from "Final Call" by Dikta.

“Barton's gone dark.” 

The collective sigh that runs through the office at the news is probably a little unprofessional, but see, it's not the first time. Far from it. Clint Barton is the kind of agent who acts on instinct, and regularly updating his superiors about every move he makes isn't too high on his list of priorities; no one knows that better than Bobbi. The only reason why he hasn't been demoted to permanent desk work yet is the success rate of his antics. 

Fury lets the info sit for a moment so they can all have their groans and eye rolls, but then he glares at the whole team one by one. “We're reasonably sure he'll still attend the fundraiser tomorrow night, it's a vital part of his cover. If we don't extract him there, we might lose contact for another couple of weeks.” 

“Why extract him at all? He's probably fine,” Myers interjects, glancing around like he's pointed out the obvious, and Fury's head whips around to glare at him specifically. Shrinking into his chair, the next words out of Myer's mouth aren't so self-assured anymore. “I... I mean, if push comes to shove he usually gets out on his own just fine. Might be safe to assume –“ 

“Because we're the goddamned FBI and we don't operate on assumptions,” Fury says, very slowly, as if talking to a toddler, and Bobbi has to bite her lip to avoid exploding into a very ill-timed fit of laughter. “But I'll remember that point of view the next time it's _your_ ass on the line, Myers.” 

There's a pause, until Myers seems to realize that his acknowledgment is required. If he weren't such an idiot, Bobbi would feel bad for him, but as it is... well, he's had it coming. 

“Understood, sir,” he mumbles, eyes trained to the floor, and Fury nods. 

“Good.” He looks at Bobbi. “You'll go in and get him. We have a cover prepared, Lewis will brief you after we're done here.”

Unlike Myers, Bobbi knows when to keep her mouth shut and accept the orders she's been given. Which is why she refrains from pointing out that, even when their marriage was still something akin to functional, Clint has always been liable to do the exact opposite of what she told him. She smiles, nods in confirmation, and quietly curses the day she first met her unpredictable, reckless, insubordinate mess of an ex-husband. 

 

***

 

The dressing up isn't Bobbi's favorite part of the job, but on occasion, she does enjoy it. Her dress is tailor-made – off the rack would've gotten noticed here – blue and white with sequins separating the different colors, modest neckline but a high slit, and skin tight. She draws looks as she enters the ball room, and that is, while risky, part of the intent; Clint has to notice her too. It's a big event. Blending into the background isn't an option. 

She sits at the bar, chats with a few of the men who approach her, dances with some, but she doesn't have to wait very long. Bobbi notices him while waltzing with a business consultant from Tokyo, and with a few gentle nudges to her dancing partner, she's close enough that their eyes meet. Clint doesn't break cover, glances at her, eyes widening slightly, then turns his attention back to the conversation he was engaged in. She wouldn't expect anything else. 

Half an hour and another three waltzes later, she excuses herself to the ladies room and finds him leaning next to the door when she comes back out. 

“Bobbi,” he whispers, though it sounds more like a snarl. “What the fuck are you doing here?” 

“What does it look like?” she whispers back. “I'm saving your ass.” 

“My ass is quite safe and certainly didn't need _you_ to swoop in and jeopardize my cover.” His voice rises on the last part, and he clears his throat, smiles at a couple of passersby who were glancing their way. 

“Tell that to Fury,” she says, shifting from one foot to the other; she can handle heels, but they're never exactly comfortable. “And while you're at it, you might want to explain why you haven't checked in for more than a week.” 

“That's what this is about?” He rolls his eyes. “I _couldn't_. Jesus fuck, Bobbi, you know how these things go sometimes.” 

She does, of course she does, but she's also witnessed too many of his unnecessary stunts to still have any patience for them. “And you know that there are protocols, and if they're not kept, safety measures will be deployed.” 

“You sound like a handbook.” 

“You sound like a poor man's James Bond.” 

He bangs the back of his head against the wall, screws his eyes shut. “Okay. So now what? You gonna haul me out, ruin more than two months of work?” 

“I've been given an order. Don't make it sound like I'm dragging you out of here by the hair just to spoil your fun.” She glares at him. He stares back. It's like she fell into a time machine and got spit out five years ago, during the time when their marriage had already begun to fall in on itself, but neither one of them wanted to acknowledge it just yet. Letting out a deep breath, she gets the spare room key out of her purse and dangles it in front of his face. “I'm going to contact Fury, let him know you're not in danger, assure him that you'll fucking remember to stay in contact from here on in, and you'll meet me upstairs in two hours. Understood?”

Instead of answering, he makes a face at her and snatches the key out of her hand, then marches back into the ballroom. She gives herself another minute to calm down and avoid suspicion before she does the same. 

 

*** 

 

Bobbi sends her message, has herself another glass of champagne, and decides that she's _not_ going to quietly wait for him in her room. She's here. She’s wearing a dress worth more than her dingy old Ford. She's going to keep dancing, and laughing, and at least pretending to drink. Occasionally, she glances at Clint or he glances at her, but they keep acting like what they're supposed to be: strangers. 

Operations messages her back after an hour; she takes another trip to the bathroom to decrypt it and sighs at the content; she's supposed to leave him here, after _making extra sure Barton knows regular check-ins aren't fucking optional_. How she's supposed to achieve that, it does not say. 

Clint intercepts her on her way back towards the bar, eyebrows raised. She shakes her head – _not now_ – and his brows climb higher up his forehead. Patience has never been one of his virtues. Figuring that he's only going to be grumpier if she makes him wait for word on the state of his mission, she pastes on a bright, fake smile and holds out her hand. To his credit, he catches on immediately, smiles back, and leads her onto the dance floor. 

The band is on the last notes of another slow waltz, and they sway dutifully, her hand on his shoulder and his arm around her waist. “So, what did he decide?”

“You're staying, but if you fail to check in again, he'll have your balls on a platter,” she says, accentuating it with an affected laugh. 

“Is that a direct quote, or...?” He doesn't break character either, brushes a wayward lock of blonde out of her face and looks at her like she's the center of the universe. 

Bobbi swallows. Once upon a time, he used to look at her like that all the time, and genuinely. She's over him and vice versa, their marriage was a shit show near the end, but, well... there _was_ a reason why she married him in the first place, and the warmth of his hand through the flimsy fabric of her dress is a sharp reminder. “I interpreted it freely.” 

The music stops – not a second too soon, where Bobbi's concerned – and they step back to nod at each other. She could leave now. The situation is resolved, he doesn't need saving after all, and whether or not he deigns to follow his orders from here on in is his business. And she's about to leave, when the first few notes of the next song fill the air. It's not a waltz. It's a tango, and Bobbi hasn't tangoed in years – since their divorce, basically. There are three things Clint Barton's good at: his job, shooting straight, and dancing. The latter threw her when she started dating him, but he taught her, and she came to enjoy it as much as he does. Ever since their divorce, though, appropriate dancing partners have gotten a little sparse. 

He doesn't let go of her hand, reels her back into his arms, a question in his eyes, and she nods. What's one more dance?

 

***

 

 _One more dance_ turns into four, and somewhere between wrapping her leg around his waist while he dips her and resting her forehead against his neck as they sway through the room to another slow song, they kiss. Bobbi can't quite retrace who leans in first, but then their lips meet and it feels a little bit like coming home. It's also a really, spectacularly bad idea. She knows this. Right that moment, she's just not sure she cares. There's a fourth area where he happens to be incredibly talented, and, what with her job and all, Bobbi hasn't gotten laid in _months_. That's not the only reason why they end up in her room after midnight – so busy kissing that they hardly manage to stop long enough so he can unlock the door and kick it shut with his foot – but it sure might have something to do with it. 

Either way, conscious thought and the capacity for regret leave her as he backs her up against the wall near the door and falls to his knees in front of her, glancing up as he pushes her dress out of the way and works her tiny silk panties, the kind that leaves no marks under tight clothing, down her legs. She forgot how _eager_ he can be, and it makes her just as breathless as the spark of pleasure that sets her nerve endings on fire when he first licks at her, fingers parting her labia for better access. He's still familiar with her body, five years apparently not enough to make him forget how much pressure she likes on her clit or how she's not at all opposed to a little teeth. It takes him mere minutes to guide her through a first, quick orgasm, and then he's looking up, grinning, licking his lips. She's not sure whether she wants to yell at him or get him naked and climb him like a tree. 

That, in point of fact, also could've been a perfect summary of their entire marriage. 

Bobbi cups his face, thumb brushing his jaw. “Nice appetizer. You up for the main course too?”

He grins wider and nods, rises to his feet. She watches while he peels himself out of his three-piece-suit, waits until he's stepping out of his boxers and kicking them to the side before she turns so he can unzip her dress. Second thoughts attempt to take hold of her when she unclasps her bra and throws it on the ground to join her tanga and his underwear, but she discards them; this won't change anything, and besides, it's too late now. She looks him up and down, a hand wrapped around his dick already and glancing up at her while he plays with the head, eyes screwed shut and his lower lip caught between his teeth, giving her a show, and she _wants_ him with an intensity that makes her lightheaded. 

There's any number of reasons why she shouldn't take what she wants, in this particular case, but she'll deal with all of them tomorrow. Now she's putting a hand on his chest, gently pushing until his legs hit the bed and he lets himself fall backwards. He crawls up the mattress until he can stretch out in its middle, and she climbs up his body, straddling him. 

She undoes her hair, shaking it out to fall down her shoulders, and his face turns serious for a moment. “Are you sure about this?” 

She cocks her head at him. “Kinda late to ask that, isn't it?” 

“Yeah,” he concedes, “maybe. But I just... it's only for tonight, yeah? No feelings, no mess. Doesn't mean we'll start anything up again. We're on the same page about that, right?” 

The fact that he's the type of guy who'd stop to ask even while hard and spread out underneath her, reassure himself they're both clear on exactly what this is, reminds her why she fell in love with him. They aren’t compatible, didn't work, but he's a good person. One day, she hopes, he'll make another woman very happy. 

“We're completely on the same page,” she says and leans down to kiss him, slow and deep and dirty, and his hands come up to hold her face. He blinks his eyes open when they part, looks at her with the same reverence she now assumes wasn't completely faked on the dance floor. 

“I really did love you,” he says, still holding her face with both hands. ”You know that, don't you?” 

She nods. “I know. So did I.” 

In some way, she still does; infuriating as he can be, and as much as she prefers they go their separate ways at work, he still matters. Her world would be a little less rich, a little less colorful, if he weren't in it at all anymore. None of that needs saying; she knows he feels the same. 

Their next kiss is decidedly slower. He lets go of her face, hands wandering down to wrap around her waist, pull her in closer. When they part, he bumps her nose with his, and both of them laugh. 

“Condom?” she asks, and he curses, pushes at her until she slides off him so he can get up and rummage around in his discarded dress pants. She makes herself comfortable in the meantime, lying down on her back, legs spread, and he pauses when he turns back around, condom in place. 

“ _Fuck_ , Bobbi,” he whispers, and she responds by letting her knees fall open wider, making a space form him between them. He doesn't hesitate at all to claim it, position himself and line up just right. The first push into her is careful, gentle, and yet it makes her groan. He stills once he's all the way inside, and their eyes lock when he starts to move in earnest; long, measured thrusts, angled just right with the help of years of experience in making her feel good. Each of them takes her apart a little more, makes pleasure slowly expand a little further throughout every part of her body. But he's not the only one who's remembering old tricks. 

She places a hand on his chest and pushes, and he's looking at her with a mix of irritation and concern before he gets what she's up to and pulls out. He goes willingly when she flips them so he's the one on his back again. 

“I'll be right back,” Bobbi tells him, gets off the bed and slips into the bathroom to look for the medicine cabinet. It's an expensive hotel, well-stocked, family friendly, surely they'll have... yeah, there it is, a small tin of Vaseline; not ideal, but it'll do. She grabs both the tin and a wad of tissues and heads back. 

Clint cranes his head and shifts when she steps out of the bathroom. He's not been idle while she was gone either, has removed the condom and placed a new one on the nightstand for later. Lowering herself onto the edge of the bed, she swats at his knees and he obeys immediately, lets them fall wide and bends them, feet planted against the mattress. She kneels between them. One hand propped against the velvety headboard, he looks at her expectantly, impatience creasing his brow. 

“C'mon, Birdie. Don't tease.” 

She just grins, but uncaps the tin and removes the foil, slathering two fingers while she runs the palm of her other hand over the inside of his thigh, muscles taught under her touch. 

He groans. “Come _on_.” 

Not a command but a plea, and yes, she's done drawing it out. He groans when she rubs at the space below his balls with a lubed finger, and when she finally brushes the pad of one of them over his hole, he sucks in a breath, his free hand flailing out to fist in the sheets. She waits until he's rode out the apprehension – they've tried this the other way around too; it wasn't her thing, but she knows the initial burn, the slight edge of _weird_ – before she gently pushes that first finger. With her thumb, she's still massaging his perineum, taking her time, letting him adjust before she adds a second, even slower, and scissors them. 

Clint moans, mumbling obscenities. He moves his hips, circling them, pressing down, fucking himself on her fingers, and she lets him set a rhythm, merely meets his movements, concentrates on finding just the right spot inside him instead. It has been awhile and she hasn't done this for anyone else, but she _knows_ him, she knows his body, and the way he tears at the sheets, muscles in his forearm standing out in stark relief, hips pumping faster, tells her when she finds it. He bears down harder, his whole body going along with the little figure eight twists of his hips, erratic and inelegant. He's a pretty sight like this, one she's missed, and it makes her gut twinge with both arousal and distant regret. 

When his eyes fall shut, licking his lips, she leans forward and presses a hand against his stomach. “Don't come yet. Hold on.” 

He curses again, but he stills, blinking, and she leans forward to kiss him while she pulls out her fingers, swallowing the way he hisses at the sensation. Blindly, she fishes for the tissues, finds them, and cleans her hand. They part, and she gathers the condom from the night stand, rolls it on. The hand he had gripping the sheets gets placed on her waist as she lowers herself down on his cock and starts moving, allowing herself to be selfish now, set the pace that's best for her, makes raw pleasure shoot up her spine on every twist. He doesn't last much longer; a few thorough thrusts to meet her and he's arching up, bottoming out as he comes. Bobbi rides him through it, reaches between them to help herself along and follows him over the edge with a finger on her clit. 

“So that was fun,” she says, sliding off him so they're lying side by side. 

Clint scrunches up his face as he removes the condom, throws it into the waste bin a few feet away – hitting it square in the middle, of course. “Remind me again why we stopped doing this?” 

“Because you're a fantastic fuck, but impossible to live with.” 

“Ah, okay. Point.” He grins. “Though maybe we could – “ 

That, albeit tempting in the afterglow of the best sex she’s had in _years_ , is a surefire road towards disaster. “Don't even finish that sentence.” 

He grins. “Hope springs eternal.” 

“Screw you.”

“What, again? You underestimate my recovery time, I'm not twenty anymore.” 

Bobbi rolls her eyes, but she smiles. The reason why they don't have much contact since the divorce – or at least as little as they can, still working on the same task force – is that they're not _finished_ enough to withstand being around one another all the time. Doing something like this more often... no, it'd really be a terrible idea, and he knows that as well as she does. 

She kisses him, much quicker than she'd like, and sits up. “I should go. The team's gotta be waiting, and you might be missed downstairs.” 

“Yeah,” he agrees, and she tells herself she imagines the brief forlorn expression washing over his face; it's easier that way. “You're right. It's been too long already.” 

They hardly look at each other while they hastily get dressed. His hands linger when he zips up her dress, and she can't suppress the urge to right his tie before they leave. What she wants is one more kiss, one more _something_ , but she doesn't give in, afraid that, if she does so now, she can't ever go back. The feeling will have faded come morning, she's sure. And if not... well, she got over him once. She'll get over this, too. 

“Good luck,” she says when they're about to part on the staircase. “Don't die out there.” 

He smiles and shrugs. “Nah. Not done getting on your nerves quite yet.” 

Then he turns and walks away, downstairs back towards the ballroom, and she watches him until he disappears from view.


End file.
